Smelling of Marijuana

A one day suspension seemed about right.

Trayvon just smelled of the stuff.

Half the teachers won’t go into the john.

Enough said.

He might have been guilty of rape, burglary,

Drug running, auto theft and masturbation.

He might have been a good kid.

He is dead because he is black.

Can we hold the thought and deal?

Have we reached the point where economics,

The result of a flattening world is the next best hope;

Where a better idea will preclude a racial statement?

If so, the irony will be perfect.

From the “Invisible Man” that we refuse to see

To the invisible man hidden behind the algorithm,

Too clever to be ignored.

What of the ideology that encourages

Confrontation over negotiation,

That prefers “Stand Your Ground” 

To a considered response?

Must we wait for evolutions answer,

Knowing that change does not denote enlightenment,

And that imprisoning the “other” for his skin-tone

Makes us keepers of slaves, and slaves to fiction.

Tuesdays Lunch

Can you present the best case?

Does the result matter?

Or are you merely going on record

To make it known you cared?

Fred would change his schedule to be there,

Because being there was important to him.

Jerry was not immune to friendship

And missing a Tuesday lunch would be a loss.

Consider: they had traveled to the place of free desserts,

Like the gambler who gets comp accommodations

By virtue of time spent on location.

Our heroes had paid their dues.

Lunch was an hour devoted to women and baseball,

Or so the billing said.

Camaraderie dictated the cover,

But sometimes a truth might flow, only slightly abridged.

Friendly conversations between Fred, Jerry and Ray

Occasionally morphs into thoughts less varnished.

From the safety of a sympathetic home team performance

Into a statement of belief or regret.

The Old Friend I’ve Never Known

When did I notice something missing?

There might have been moments years ago,

But I was too busy telling my story,

Sharing my drama and often seeking advice.

It isn’t, and wasn’t, that I failed to notice

His willingness to hear my plots and prejudices.

I now recall his silence.

If asked he would answer, unasked he deferred.

I suspect that he had much to offer,

But I was certainly willing to assume

His story was vanilla, with some flavoring

That would satisfy my limited curiosity.

It is both fascinating and sobering

To learn I knew less about more

That has happened in his life.

Fifty years, “Who Knew”?

I’ve resolved to ask the questions,

And occasionally find we are into his conversation.

Year fifty-one might see a change.

It’s up to me.

Downtown Durstein

In Austria the sin of the grandfathers

Is not acknowledged. No Jewish problem here.

Tiny Durnstein, a city of 485, was not anti-Semitic,

In truth, it hardly existed.

Two million visitors a year,  

Overwhelm this green valley 

That strides the brown green waters

Of the Danube.

I suppose, my acceptance

Of this tiny hamlet is tied to Vienna, and

An acknowledgement of times past,

Though it feels like a pathetic sufferance of convenience.

Strange, my indignation at its religion

And the Nazi history of this place,

Dissolves in the face of Durnstein tree lined parks,

Music and socialist leaning.

Facing East

Dai spoke love of his country

In spite of the corruption that

Is shaping his prospects.

He shares the popular Confucius values.

His loyalty is to Vietnam, family, and self.

He believes looking east is best.

It is there that the sun and your life will rise.

Dai is about patience.

He knows both the history that despises America,

And the one that accepts America's contribution,

However belated and modest.

Dai leads us visitors with concern and charm.

His father was a victim of the wars;

Dai was raised in a country seeking peace.

The people believe Ho Chi Minh was near perfect,

Dai knows the country is Buddhist, and Ho was not perfect.

Small boned, looking every bit a fast thinker,

He will get very high grades from our group.

Anticipating most of our questions and concerns.

Dai will probably lead tours for another 40 years.

The man maintains a love for his work,

And modest material goals.

His humor is self-deprecating,

And I hold he is sincere.

The Cambodian Children

There are the temples.

Even the most humble need to manifest material success.

Our guides and crew are incredibly helpful and caring,

But it is the children that hold my attention.

Theirs is a heavy burden.

They are tasked with bringing home money,

And they understand, far more than the adults,

Without ever displaying anger.

For anger there must surely be.

We are told

They wish to offer friendship,

And will ask to hold your hand.

Two brothers, I will call Peter and John,

One twelve the other nine, understand their mission

And we have a silly conversation while climbing

The path to today's temple.

Warming to their job,

They attempt to help me ascend.

I am silent when they speak of the family's poverty

And young John's bad leg.

We are each playing our part,

But I despise my pathetic casting

As the eager American determined not to encourage

These beggars into a life of ignominy.

When the children accept their role,

Perform with honesty and integrity,

The supporting caste tolerates, smiles,

But will leave the children nothing of value.

The Guy in the Next Seat

We have arrived at morning sans daylight.

It's years since I flew to Asia and

Anticipate the wonders that once awaited me have diminished,

Or disappeared under new local priorities.

We are four hours out of Hong Kong

With no one to greet before we fly to Bangkok.

Les and Harriet are still sleeping.

It may be eight AM in LA, locally it's three.

Our flight to Thailand from Hong Kong featured George,

Who had about fifty viable suggestions for our trip;

From ordering special diet food for faster meal service,

To easy electronic communication in foreign countries.

A Californian who might show up in Coronado

With a need to see the beach.

He's in Thailand to see, yet again, the educated elephants

Of Chiang Ma and get a medical exam in Bangkok.

George requires one special pill a month.

It costs $4000, and allows him to live.

He comes here annually to have exacting blood work.

The Elephants are his reward for flying 7500 miles.

George is likely to be the improbable star

Of this trip, our first to Thailand and Vietnam.

He advises us softly of sights and sounds

That might make our vacation richer.

The sights matter, but it's the experiences

That will return to confront or comfort,

Offering yet other perspectives

Through the distorting mirror of memory.

Having Fun?

Waiting for the last stragglers,

G left the Seoul tour bus again and resumed negotiations.

The street merchant had started at $10,

And G had gotten him down to $2,

Before returning to the bus.

Now G returned to resume battle.

The vendor was not interested in the game.

G returned to the bus again, not terribly disappointed.

And I?  I was ready to stamp.

“What the fuck is the matter with you G?

The guy makes his miserable living selling cheap trinkets,

And you humiliate the poor son-of-a-bitch

In front of the other street hawkers,”

Is what I should have said.

Les As A Child

He must have been a stubborn  child.

How else to explain his insistence?

He was going, not withstanding medical

And marital arguments to the contrary.

There was the pending knee surgery,

And the inoperative ankle deterioration,

Coupled with the certainty he would be

Walking miles over suspect terrain.

Thanks to Les’ incapacity, we moved easily through the airport.

Three of us followed him, wheelchair and porter;

As we sailed through check points, avoiding long lines,

On our way to the assigned Vietnam boarding gate.

For the next three weeks we climbed ancient stairs,

Not designed for a man with an essential cane.

Height, depth ,and uniformity of steps

Had not been critical to the ancient builders.

I counted neither the ancient temples,

Nor the quality or quantity of ascents and declines

Needed to reach our destinations and return safely.

I do know that Les did what the rest of us did.

More than once, I watched as my man

Struggled to keep a solid footing on

Not quite paved streets or sidewalks.

I’ve no doubt he will remember this adventure.

Les survived and maintained his good humor.

I view his performance under pressure admirable.

As to the question of wisdom in undertaking this trip:

The man was a fucking maniac.

The Graying

Inevitability offers little solace.

The once magnificent Maple

Looks naked and forlorn on this late spring morning.

A sad monument to past greens and gold’s.

Rose, now starting her 13^th year,

Has reached an age where accepting her leash,

Once an enchanted moment preceding the day’s adventure,

Seems to affirm a foreboding journey.

Michael, my buddy, has been giving ground for a year, maybe two.

At dinner, he becomes very quiet

If the subject turns contemporary.

His sharp wit is gone along with driving directions.

There is probably an offset to these tales,

A brilliant light coming from an eternal source,

Or rebirth into a higher realm.

For my part, a fast exit sounds more appealing.